


The Shape of Evil

by sp00kworm



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bloody Hands, Breaking and Entering, Choking, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Horror, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Murder, Obsession, Presents, Roughness, Serial Killers, Shower Sex, Slasher, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unhealthy Obsessions, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, masturbation reference, slashers, the shape - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-03 08:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21176555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp00kworm/pseuds/sp00kworm
Summary: Michael Myers escapes to try and find himself some peace. The peace comes after the voices are pleased. The Shape needs to appease them. He has to kill. He doesn't expect to find a new thrill and a new obsession in the form of the hardware store owner's daughter.





	1. Part 1: A Dark Night

Loomis had described Michael Myers in his diagnostic reports as nothing short of pure evil. Many were inclined to disagree with ‘Evil’ as a diagnosis. Evil wasn’t a thing, or a person, it was a description of a mindset. The Babysitter Killer had proven he was evil, with his murderous spree in 1978, but he wasn’t the embodiment of the word. Most argued he was simply a very sick man. Sick from a young age, and sick enough now to continue set in his ways, feeding the shape, the voices screaming inside, clawing at him for blood. Schizophrenia at its extreme. They muttered and screamed inside of his head, clawing at the bone when he was in public. Other people upset his calm silence. The drugs kept the calm silence. The drugs weren’t bad, in Michael’s eyes, the were a break from the voices, letting him stare at a cell wall while some new professional sought answers from him. They never lasted long enough, and soon enough he was agitated, his hands flexing on top of his thighs as his blind eye squinted a little. Most intelligent people left when that started, though Michael often stayed silent for the entirety of any interview or treatment.

Loomis had locked him without food or water as a child to test his resolve. Nothing could break Michael Myer’s from his silent resolve. Least of all anyone seeking to gain anything from his incarceration.

He’d escaped easily after his hunt for Laurie. The prison guards were ill equipped, and he was a goliath of a man, inhumanly strong. Their necks had snapped like twigs in his cell before he’d made it out and down to the laundry rooms. An open window was all he needed. Getting back to the Myer’s home had been a weighty task. Covered in dirt and festering, he’d gotten to the door, the stolen pickup truck parked around the corner in case anyone got curious about a car being on the driveway. The door swung open and dust swirled before him, the light of the streetlight shining through the clouds of dust. It had been a while. A lot of the contents remained. People were too scared to wander into the house of a famed serial killer and then to try and steal his items. Michael would have scoffed, if he cared enough to make a noise. He hadn’t spoken in years. The drawers in the hall were caked in a thick layer of dust, and Michael stopped for a moment to look at the grimy vase on top of it before stalking to the kitchen.

The man stood over the sink, feeling the brown hair on his head rush over his cheeks in waves. It had grown out recently, before escaping, and the orderlies hadn’t been to cut it before that. Most were too scared to come near him, and even the bravest nurses and guards wouldn’t dare to touch his face. Nor would he let any of them, at least not while he was conscious. They shaved his head the first time while he was unconscious, and because he was infested with headlice. After that they hadn’t touched him until they really needed to. Michael investigated the bottom of the basin before clutching the tap and turning it on. The pipe rumbled and the spout rattled before a pathetic trickle of water dribbled out. The water had been turned off. It had been years since he was last here after all, and the man peered at the back-porch door before opening the backdoor, taking it off its bolt latch and shoving the storm door open. There were two abandoned houses either side as well. Michael took the steps into the overgrown yard before pulling the wire fence aside and stepping through into next yard over.

The man approached the outdoor tap before turning it. Water gushed out over the slab patio and Michael was quick to peel the brown stained, white sanatorium clothing, initialled with his patient number. Tossing them into the trash can, he returned to the tap and attached the old hose pipe. The nozzle spurted with water and Michael raised it, spraying himself with cold water, rinsing the crusted blood and dirt from his hands first. He didn’t flinch from the cold and sprayed down his legs before kicking the soft loafers aside. The water made his shoulders flex as he held the hose over his head, water licking his cheeks and dripping from his long hair. He was clean quickly and the killer turned off the hose, dropping it on the stone before pushing back through the fence. The house was cool and Michael took the stairs two at a time. As he reached the closet at the top of the stairs, he stopped and peered through the window in the side of the house. Silence. There was nothing living apart from noisy racoons. He opened the doors and observed his stash of clothes. The mechanic coveralls and briefs were shoved beneath old sheets and dusty hangers. He pulled them out and a sheet, wiping off the water from his body with swift movements before he pulled on the new clothing. The boots were at the back and he pulled them on before feeling a little more assured of himself.

His fists flexed before he pushed his hair away from his eyes. He raked it backwards. Movement. A dog and its owner walked down the road. Michael breathed, incomplete, and looked to the stairs before moving out into the world again. He needed to get moving. A new hole to creep from. He grasped the keys from where he’d abandoned them on the drawers. He thumbed at the blood on the keyring before pushing them into the ignition. The pickup’s engine rolled before roaring into life. Michael touched his cheek bone.

The Shape was not complete yet. The Shape needed his mask.

Your father was not best pleased about someone breaking into his hardware store. It had happened once before many years ago. This time all that was taken was a Halloween mask, a single kitchen knife and a handful of dollar bills from the tip jar. You’d shook your head and offered your condolences to your dad before escaping out with your dog. Your Golden Retriever, Sam, seemed happy for the walk, trotting along by your side, the lead held in your hand. The neighbourhood bled away to the dilapidated housing of Haddonfield. These homes were quiet, the only life signs the rats rummaging in the bins. You looked up at the Myer’s house. You knew the story. Your father was glad you were with him at the shop that night, and not at home alone. Now twenty, you were confident in your ability to defend yourself. But against the Babysitter Killer? Perhaps not. He was almost an urban legend. Michael Myers was very real, locked in a Sanatorium.

He’d failed to kill Laurie Strode. The woman that had become his entire obsession, but that wouldn’t stop him from killing anyone else that got in his way. You wondered to yourself as you walked with Sam. Same stopped for a moment to sniff a trashcan, peeing on the metal before he sniffed at the white material inside of it. You ignored it and called for your hound to follow you as you escaped back to the safety of habited housing and streetlights. What you didn’t see was the pickup truck turning its headlights on around the corner.

The Shape flexed his hands on the wheel of the truck, wondering why your lingering gaze had been aimed at his childhood home. He watched your hips move before glancing over you again. You weren’t right, not yet at least. The voices muttered. You weren’t right. He pulled away from the curb and drove past you at a startling speed. He watched you in the rear view mirror through the eyeholes of his mask, ruined eye glassy, the other blue one cold.

Not yet. You weren’t his prey just yet.

You returned home and gave Sam fresh water, patting the dog’s head before moving to go and shower and get ready for bed. The sun was setting, and your dad was busy with the store, talking to the one incompetent police officer the sheriff’s office had sent to take a statement. Sam gobbled water before flopping down in his bed in the hall, snoozing quietly as you turned on the hot water to warm up. There was a strange coldness in your room as you moved to grab your pyjamas and towel. The coldness sent a shiver down your spine. The curtains were open, and you moved towards them, looking down into the next house over. Mrs Jenkins wasn’t in the kitchen, but a white-faced man was. He looked up from the windowpane, obviously gazing into your room, watching you collect your clothes for a shower. You felt your hair stand on end as you gazed the black eye holes. It was a Halloween mask. He was probably just Mrs Jenkin’s son looking to scare her. The teen was an asshole like that. Shrugging the fear away you closed the curtains and moved to get the shower you had been leaving to heat up.

You were sure Sam would let you know if anyone got into the house.

After getting a shower and getting dressed, you dared to peak out of the curtains once more. The man in the mask was gone, and something was overheating on top of Mrs Jenkin’s stove. The vegetables were overboiling, the water spilling onto the hob. As you watched, a hand curled from the duskiness in the house and snapped the gas off. It disappeared again and you recoiled from the window as the white face flickered in and out of the shower. He turned from the stove and walked away, a metallic gleam in his hand. It was most likely her son…You hoped at least as you watched him skirt through the house. The curtains fluttered closed as you moved away and quickly descended the stairs. Rushing to the front door, you pressed against it and pushed the latch in place, ensuring you locked it as well before feeling more at ease. You shut the open window in the front room and sighed softly, petting Sam’s head as you went past. The dog wagged his tail and sniffed as you went to make a sandwich. You made sure Sam had a full food bowl before sitting down on the couch and eating, the evening news rolling in the background.

As you ate, you saw the white masked man again, through the side window of the lounge his fist clenched around the shaft of a long chef’s knife. He took one step into the house next door before his head turned, slowly, like a rusted motor, the soulless black shade of his eyes glaring into your soul. His head tilted, hand shifting around the handle of the knife before he stepped over the threshold, seemingly ignoring your looks as he moved into the house. Panting, you moved closer and watched the Halloween masked man move into the living area. There wasn’t anyone in there, so he stopped at the window again, watching, breathing, the chest of his coveralls moving rhythmically. He turned on his heels and then stalked out of your vision. He didn’t go into the back room but moved up the stairs, knife in hand. You didn’t dee him after that, nor hear a word. You knew that there was a girl cat sitting next door. Your hand dashed for the phone, taking it from the receiver as you watched the man reappear. His hands were red, the knife glinted with dark blood. His dark blue clothing was sticky with blood as well. You punched in the number for the police and waited, watching him watching you.

He stared. He didn’t move. The arms at his sides clenched before he turned again. Slow and methodically, the man stepped out of view. You saw the front door rattle and open and made sure to dash for the upstairs. The operator spoke up as you escaped up the stairs. Sam sensed your unease and looked to the door, teeth appearing from behind his teeth.

“Nine-one-one, what’s you’re emergency?” The operator chirped.

“There’s a man with a knife trying to get into my house. I think he’s hurt my neighbours.”

“What’s your address?” She asked calmly, already clicking buttons, typing and signalling a patrol for a response. You heard the door slam open.

“Please, please send someone, he’s here…please.” You gasped down the receiver before the phone line went dead. You looked around the corner from the top of the stairs. He was stood, ignoring Sam’s vicious barking, the landline wire in hand. He twirled the wire before dropping it apathetically, head tilting to look at your dog.

Sam growled before barking again and running, teeth bared, leaping for the man stood at the bottom of the stairs. You gasped. The man’s head tilted. He knew you were there. Ignoring you for the moment he snatched Sam out of the air, wrangling the dog by his collar before throwing him out onto the porch with a flick of his wrist. His boot moved and he kicked the door shut behind the hound. The whimpering of the injured animal did nothing to him as he breathed heavily through the latex of the mask simply standing at the bottom of the staircase. He was listening to you breathe. Waiting, like a predator. You moved and he took a step on the staircase.

“Fuck.” You whispered and bolted. His heavy footfalls followed as he moved slowly up the stairs, stalking after you almost leisurely. The floorboards creaked as you ran, ducking into your bedroom before shoving your drawer in front of the door. It blocked the door as the man shoved against it. It wouldn’t hold for long.

Desperately, you looked around the room. Nothing was an escape. The window. You rushed to it and peered into the darkness and the bushes below. You could dangle and drop before sprinting up the street. It would give the police enough time to get there. With a deep breath you pushed the window open and moved to lift yourself out of it. The door behind you smashed open, the drawer tipped over as the man pushed inside, red hands leaving thick bloodied handprints over the white gloss of the door. His knife was pushed in his front pocket. He was quickly over at you, grabbing you by the hips before heaving you back inside. He smashed the window closed and gripped you tight with slick hands, his mask making his breathing louder to your ears.

“Get the fuck off of me!” You hissed, kicking at his thighs, trying to weasel your way out of his wet grip. He was impossibly strong. To prove his point, he pressed his hands tight to you and wrapped his arms around you in a vice grip. You felt your ribs creak with the pressure and gasped, nails biting into the exposed flesh of his hands, pushing blood underneath your nails.

After that you remained still enough, and the man carried you against him, taking you downstairs into the back room where your dinner table sat. You didn’t dare move, feeling the flex in his fingers as your leg moved.

You looked up at the white mask over you, “I know who you are…Michael Myers. Why are you back? Did you not get enough from killing those babysitters?” You hissed. Your words seemed to sit for a moment as Michael heaved you onto the tabletop. Looking up, you saw his fingers twitch. In a flash, a hand was around your throat, the wet slickness marking your skin as you choked in his grasp. Gasping, you scratched at him, legs kicking out as he closed your windpipe. The blood slicked the entirety of your neck, wetting the surface of your skin as his fingers gripped tight, slipping as he readjusted his grip, letting you get one valuable gasp of air before they were tight again. Nails curled into the Shape’s flesh as you wheezed beneath him, looking at the eye holes desperately.

Michael Myers was a burning furnace. His hot hands squeezed, and you opened your mouth desperately. His fingers were going to leave dark bruises. You pressed your fingers into the backs of his hands and peered at the shadows of his macabre Halloween mask. Cold blue eyes. One was clouded, the skin torn with a puckered scar and the blue colour of his iris faded. The other looked at you calmly, as though choking the life from you was nothing more than a simple task. It was almost like he saw this as boring. No emotions registered as he leaned forwards, peering at your reddening face, admiring the flush to your skin as he held fast. The joy of your torture soon waned, and he let go, letting you retch and gasp for air, flat against the table still. You watched Michael reach for the knife and noticed his fingers twitch.

The Shape felt the voices twirl inside. Too early. It was still too early. He looked back at the blush on her cheeks and tilted his head, feeling something churn to life in his abdomen.

You felt tears burn your eyes as you reached up, trying to wipe away the cooling blood of Michael’s last victim from your neck. The red came away slick, some areas already crusted and flaky over your skin. Michael’s eyes watched your fingers move. He was intrigued by the look of blood over your dainty hands. A flinch. He reached for his outfit and pressed his hand to the dark blue material. It came away sticky with blood. The large palm thumped against your shoulder before he dragged the bloodied digits along your collar bones. Blood smeared over the skin and Michael simply watched his own hand move. You didn’t dare make a noise, watching the blood smear your complexion. The killer grabbed the handle of his knife. Metal shone in the light and you looked upwards, wondering if it was time for the end. He didn’t plunge the knife into your sternum. The cold metal of the blade traced your collar bones, following the waving path of the blood as Michael simply observed you. You flinched as he pressed the sharpened edge to you neck but relaxed as he turned it to the flat of the blade, wiping more blood over your skin.

His fingers returned swiftly, dipping into the dripping blood, dragging it over your skin. His hands dared to ghost over your chest before fingers swiped through the blood and dipped between your cleavage. It was cold now. The blood stank. Iron and salt curled in your nostrils as you watched the madman over you paint you with his victims’ blood. His hips shifted and you cringed, feeling the hardness of his cock press against your thigh. Still, the cold blue eyes looking at you never betrayed a single thing. Michael finished his bloodied venture and rolled his hips once more before drawing away. Stopping himself, you assumed.

The voices told him to wait. Not yet. He would wait. He would wait for however long it took.

You dared to take a deep breath as the killer backed away, knife in his hand, a warning to you should you try and moved from the table. He grunted as his dick was bunched awkwardly in his underwear. That was the only noise you’d heard aside from breathing. You being painted in blood was obviously doing something to the man. Michael’s head tilted before he took another step back, looking at you, breathing loudly into the mask. His wet hands flexed before he turned and was moving towards the door. You stayed still, waiting for the door to slam before you dared to sit up. Swallowing was difficult. Your voice gargled before going silent in your mouth. It would be a long time before you could speak about Michael Myers. With shaking hands, you clutched at your bloodied shoulders, and silently, you dipped your head, resting it on your knees, feeling the burning gaze of The Shape through every fibre of your being.

The Shape flittered between houses, his cock aching in his coveralls, breath steaming in the air. His obsession swirled relentlessly, the voices wanting her dead but also wishing to play with her. He’d have to decide. But, for now, he pushed himself into his pickup and sighed, watching you clutch your throat in the bathroom before he unzipped his outfit and wrapped a burning hot, blood slicked hand around his cock.


	2. Part 2: Dawn's Light

The police refused to believe your statement. Michael Myers wasn’t responsible for only two killings. He was a serial killer. Someone that delighted in leaving a trail of bodies for no reason other than, seemingly, his own self-indulgence. It took them two weeks to receive word from Smiths Grove about his escape, yet all had been silent since the night he tore into your home and broke Sam’s leg. Your dog was recovering at the same time as you. The doctor had advised no talking for a few weeks to let the cartilage and muscle heal from Michael’s assault on your windpipe. Squeaks of your voice had begun to return, and as Sam was able to get himself to walk, you were able to softly whisper to your dog once more. The hound stayed laid with you most days, his head in your lap, apologetic for not being able to stop your attacker. You were simply glad the golden retriever wasn’t dead. Michael had hung annoying dogs up on trees before, gutted, bleeding as they swung from the branches. Your father couldn’t be with you every minute, despite what he wanted to do, and so you took to keeping everything in the house locked when he left to run the hardware store.

Halloween night came quickly, the trees shedding their orange leaves, and still there was no sign of Michael Myers. It was like he had disappeared altogether. The voices were quiet in Michael’s world, the Shape separated from his mask as he sat in the trees, looking towards the house he had been in so recently. You’d recovered wonderfully from his bruising, yet his hands itched to mark you again. You were his to admirer, his to keep. His prey. He didn’t know anymore as he watched you like a high school teenager, hoping to get a glimpse of you changing in the house. Fingers twitched at the thought, yet, for once, it didn’t interest him. He was content, knelt low in the tree line, watching you move slowly about the house, not daring to look through the windows. He’d seen you leave with your father. He’d followed in his pick-up, at a distance, wondering where you were going. It was to the doctor’s office and he’d watched you sit and talk to their therapist.

It was a shame no one had done the same thing for him. Not that Michael cared. He knew that he was evil the day he pushed the blade through his sister’s sternum three times. It had shut her up. He didn’t care. Her and her boyfriends. Good riddance. She was just another whore like their mother. He nipped the thought in the bud as he looked at you again, watching you wash the dishes from lunch. You were different. The voices didn’t chatter about you like they did his sister. They wanted you to look at. It contented him and the voices to watch and observe. The bubbles slicked your arms, and he was reminded of his grandma, giving him worried glances from the counter as he chewed his lunch, telling her about what the voices were saying. Somehow the domestication suited you in his head. Your hair moved as you span, the light shining over the healed skin of your neck. You could probably talk again now. A cold breeze blew through Michael’s tangled hair and he stood by the tree trunk, watching leaves rush around his feet. He was dressed plainly, a simple t-shirt and flare jeans over chunky black boots. His light brown hair rushed around his head as he stepped out of sight, peering with his good eye at the kitchen window.

You’d vanished.

He returned to kneeling by the tree trunk and watched the lights flick on upstairs. Michael tugged his hand through his hair and watched again as the curtains were drawn shut. It looked like he wasn’t getting anymore looks. He needed to draw your attention again. He’d managed to steal a hunting knife from Mrs Jenkin’s house. It was her late husband’s he assumed but he had strapped the knife to his hip anyway as he came out. Somehow, he needed your attention again. A need for it possessively curled around his mind, a smog that clouded his vision of the people around him. His fingers twitched on the butt of the knife before he saw a prize. Sam barked at the window. He barked around this time when something was in the yard. Michael was sure he was hidden from view, but the cat spraying on the pile of leaves next to your tool shed was the dog’s object of fascination this time.

Sam barked a few more times before getting bored at the window and jumping down. Michael’s eye zoned in on the cat. The ginger tom flounced away from the leaves, tail held high and nose sniffing the air. Michael held his hand low to the floor, crouching by the base of the tree, his muddy boots crunching the leaves underneath him. The tom cat sniffed the air before seeing him, offering his hand, hidden behind the trunk. Curious, the cat trotted over, nose lowered to his hand, sniffing to see if he had any food for it. Michael’s lip twitched before he wrangled the cat by the back of it’s neck. The pet hissed, yowling viciously before striking at his arm with sharp hunting claws. Michael grunted as the claws drew blood but only drew his knife in response. The sharp blade shut the cat up. It hung limp in his arms, the blade having slid from its neck to back legs. He watched the organs spill over the floor before shaking the creature, ensuring it was dead. Blood covered his knife hand. Michael dragged the cat from the dirty floor and slowly stalked to your backdoor, laying it down to bleed on the patio stone.

Perhaps dealing with the menace cat would earn him attention.

His hand froze over the porch door. Michael looked through the glass. You weren’t nearby. Breathing deeply, he peered left, then right, before knocking three times in succession, loud and controlled, before striding back into the tree line. His heart flipped in his chest as he looked back at his work, the bloodied cat laid over the step to the backdoor, bleeding, its tail still twitching limply over the stone. It was the same feeling he had as he wiped blood over your neck, his hands shaking, gripping the muscles of your windpipe closed. The dog, Sam, barked viciously at the backdoor, and Michael watched from the tree, his hand gripping the lowest branch as he peered as close as he dared. His heart calmed, his breathing evened out, and he watched, drawing even breaths in and out of his nose. The backdoor rattled as you undid the latches and turned the key. You appeared in the crack, gripping the golden retriever by his collar.

Startled, you yelped and released Sam’s collar, both hands held over your mouth as you stared down at the mutilated cat on your doorstep. Sam sniffed the fur before he licked at the blood.

“SAM!” You tugged the dog away from the cat’s corpse and dragged the dog back inside, shutting him out of the kitchen before returning to the cat. You fluttered around it for a moment before returning with yellow marigold gloves and a binbag, the black sack shaking in your hands as you reached for the cat and threw it into the bag, trying not to retch at the smell of it, ensuring all of it’s body parts were off your doorstep before you dared to step over the step and get the hose. The blood wouldn’t stain if you washed it away quick enough. You threw the gloves in the bag with the cat, hands shaking as you undid the hose and turned on the jet stream of cold water, one hand covering your nose at the smell of the cat’s recent meal that had spilled over your stone patio. The water diluted the blood and washed it down the stone and into the grass where it disappeared into the earth.

Michael could see the shaking. The tears threatening to spill. He flexed his hands and tilted his head. You weren’t pleased that he had dealt with the menace animal. It had been pissing on the lawn for the past three months. He’d watched it do so. Why weren’t you impressed? The Shape stirred to life in his head. He should do something again. Your attention made it whisper softly. His gaze watched you turn off the water, head ducked low as you scuttled back inside. The phone was quickly pressed to your ear. He leaned away from the tree and looked at the sticky blood over his knife and hand. Something different. A different gift would make you notice him. But not today. Not yet. The voice suggested flowers. Judith liked flowers from her boyfriend. Thinking of her made his hand tighten around his hunting knife. He didn’t want to think about her. He didn’t feel such disgusted rage towards this one. She wasn’t having sex with a no-good fuck boy. This one was gentle and soft. He thought of running deer as he pushed through the bushes of next door’s yard, blood dripping over the leaves as he moved on with a singular purpose in mind.

Rest. Food. Then a new gift. He eyed up Mrs Jenkin’s old flower bed. The winter roses curled from thorny bushes, in full bloom, dripping with dew from the morning cold. Later. Tomorrow. The voice hummed dully in the back of his mind as he thumped through the leaves.

You showed your dad the cat when he got home. He too has retched at the sight.

“It was probably some fucked up teens thinking its funny to take the piss out of a victim. Don’t worry sweetie, I’ll go throw it out.” He kissed your forehead and took the cat out to the bins, knotted tight. That had only been the beginning of the gifts.

It was a few days before something else was laid on your doorstep.

Michael’s hands were bleeding with pricks from the thorns. He barely registered the pain as he wrenched flowers from the bush, ensuring the stems were of a similar length as he went around. A mix of various roses were cradled in his arms, dotted with blood from his scratched fingers. The Shape was separated from his mask again, ducked low in the bushes, peeling stems from the climbing roses on the trellis. Mrs Jenkin’s son was out. He’d gone to the bar, where he usually spent most of his days it seemed. Michael was glad to be uninterrupted as he worked, slowly, methodically. He looked at the yellow, red and white roses and decided he had enough before pulling the cord out of his jean’s pocket. He tied the knot around the stems efficiently, blood soaking into the old outdoor twine from his wounded fingers. He admired them before standing up straight and turning on his heels, walking through the gap in the bushes before he peered at your windows. You were upstairs this time.

The Shape ducked through your washing line, pushing the sheets apart, leaving stains of streaked blood over the white material, before making a beeline for your door. Michael laid the bundle of flowers on the clean stone, looking at the lingering flecks of hard blood in the cement. His gaze only had a moment to remain as he heard a noise upstairs. A vase hit the floor and you cured softly. The window was open. Michael stepped away from the flowers and moved back, stepping into the fluttering sheets as he saw you in your father’s bedroom window, looking down at the shattered glass on the floor no doubt. You stepped around the mess, presumably to fetch a broom. Michael watched from the clothesline as you descended the stairs. His hands reached for the sheets, curling tight, spreading red blood over them as he watched you return with a dustpan and brush. His blind eye twitched as he watched you pick up glass. Your finger sliced open on a piece and Michael twitched softly at the colour of the blood before you pushed it into your mouth. The mess was quickly cleaned up and Michael moved further away from your path, standing in the trees, relaxed, observing as the door opened.

You startled as you opened the backdoor. A bunch of multicoloured winter roses laid on the stone step, wrapped together tightly with a double knot of tied garden twine. The stems were thorny, and the twine was stained with blood from where someone had pricked themselves on the offering. It was a kind gift and you felt your face go hot at the prospect of who was behind it. Hopefully not the same person who had left the cat on your doorstep. You stepped around the flowers before pouring the glass into the dustbin. On your return you picked the flowers up and frowned at the bloodied marks around the thorns. Someone had been hurt a few times while picking these. A gust of wind tousled your hair and you looked out across the yard in hopes of seeing anyone. Nothing. Leaves moved around the base of a tree with the wind. Then you caught sight of the washing. Dots of blood were smeared over the white fabric. Your admirer had been hasty in their retreat, pushing through the washing in order to hide themselves.

You shuddered.

Michael felt his hands twitch at the sight.

You turned away and sighed, moving to the kitchen, washing the blooms under cool water to get rid of the blood before finding a vase. They were sat on the kitchen table. You then returned to take the sheets back into the house, bundling them up for the washer again.

Michael exhaled softly from behind the tree trunk. Something curled in him. Your reaction interested him. The voice muttered behind his ear and the man reached to scratch at it, irritated. Something else. He wanted the attention now, his hands flexing as you sniffed the flowers.

He wanted you to himself. A boy in your life only amplified his obsession, curling in the pit of his stomach. A want and a need for you.

A caged bird.

The weeks followed with presents left on the Friday. You enjoyed them then, he was sure, after your therapy with the doctor. She was helping you. He’d seen you more outside, the bruises that were his doing completely healed. You were talking and going out to your library job, even helping your father out in the store from time to time. Michael tilted his head as he laid down a long winter scarf, the material thick wool, coloured a bright orange. He nestled a book in the material. It was a novel. The next one you needed for the series you had just finished reading. He knocked then strode to the treeline and watched, waiting for you to come out in the low-cut jumper. He wished the blood was still smeared over your collar bones with it on. The Shape stood, silent as a statue, and watched as you opened the back door, curious as always.

You were touched again. Michael shifted uncomfortably as you sniffed the woollen scarf. Horror stretched over your features as you peered at the book. Michael tilted his head, cold blue eyes watching, analysing the scene before him. Your eyes looked to the treeline. You didn’t see him tucked away in the shadows. He tilted his head, hand flexing over the handle of his knife. He felt something like satisfaction curl in his gut. Now you knew he was watching you.

Panic struck you quickly. The man had been watching. Someone was watching you to know this. A stalker. Not just an admirer but a stalker. He had been the one to leave these things. A thought flickered into your mind. The night of horror coiled tight around you, possessively, consuming your thoughts as you remembered the bloody, slick hands around your neck, squeezing tight. Then he’d let you go, covering you in blood before he disappeared into the night. He’d been aroused by your suffering, enjoying watching you squirm underneath his hands before he’d strode away. You were prey. You were an obsession to a man that killed without a second thought.

Gasping, you looked through the window. The sheets fluttered. Sam huffed on the sofa. Silence. The sheets fluttered again. Dark blue coveralls and black muddy boots appeared underneath the white material. A knife appeared by the mysterious figure’s thigh. You bolted from the window, slamming the locks on the back door before you grabbed for Sam. The dog was up in an instant, barking ferociously in his unease. You ran for the front door and peered through the window. He wasn’t there. Sam howled at the back door as a knock sounded. Spit dried in your mouth as you peered around the edge of the door. A figure was shadowed at the door. He knocked again, slowly, three times. Your mouth was dry as you stepped around the edge of the door. He knocked once more before turning the handle. It didn’t budge. The door rattled violently before the figure turned. A mask peered through the kitchen window; cold blue eyes shadowed by black. The head tilted before he moved back again and turned the handle once more. It didn’t budge. The step thumped as he walked away.

Blood rushed in your ears as you heard him move down the side of the house. Silence once more. A thump from inside the house. The lounge area. You bolted and gasped when you saw him, a knife from a kitchen in his hand, clenched tightly, his eyes looking at you through the pale, ghostly mask. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. You trembled in the doorway as he turned the knife, admiring the silver colour for a moment before he tucked it into his pocket of his worker’s clothes. Frightened, you watched his hand reach into his pocket. He fisted the item before drawing out crushed flowers. The petals fell from his hands as he let the stems go. The Shape tilted his head, watching the flowers drop to the floor.

“Michael… What do you want from me?” You asked, shaking.

The masked man breathed loudly, watching you quiver in the entrance to the room. His eyes trailed over your legs before watching you.

“What do you want from me?!” You screeched, looking at the flowers. Sam howled and you caught the dog by his collar, “You… You left all those gifts?”

Michael’s finger twitched.

“Why? Is that your way of saying fucking sorry?” You snarled before Michael took a step forward. Jumping you wretched Sam backwards and watched as the killer stood still. He reached into his pocket again and wrenched another flower free. It was red. White stained with blood.

He held it out. Expectant. You hushed Sam before reaching for it. As your fingers touched the stem, Michael grabbed you by the arms, tugging you into his form, wrapping his arms steel tight around you. Sam barked, jolting forwards before Michael stared at the dog. It ran with its tail between his legs, whimpering. You were glad he didn’t face off with the killer again. Michael’s heavy breathing was deafening in your ears. His hands slid upwards before grazing the skin of your neck. This time he didn’t clamp them tight, just ran the rough skin of his fingertips over the soft skin. You flinched and cried out quietly before Michael eased his grip, hands wandering. He snatched your arm in a tight grip, turning the palm to face his dark gaze. Blood dripped from the cut the thorns of the flower had made Michael’s head tilted before he pushed the fingertip towards your cheek. It dabbed on the skin, leaving a red spot in its wake. He watched it drip down your cheek before wiping at it, admiring the glint of it on his thumb before he swiped it over your neck.

A realization dawned on you then.

He was petting you, sniffing your hair, admiring your form. Michael Myers was your admirer. The man that had let you live was obsessed with your every waking moment. His hands loosened on your wrists. They clamped when he felt you reach upwards.

“Why wont you show me?” You whispered. Your fingers flexed, touching the latex of the Halloween mask, “Why me?” You whispered in defeat. The Shape’s head tilted, considering your question for a moment, or so it seemed. He squeezed your cut finger and watched the blood well before he took it on his own fingertip. The man drew the blood over your collar bone, petting the soft skin. His heavy breathing evened out as he snatched your head back by your hair.

You were beautiful. You were his.

Your breathing caught in your throat as you felt his hips press forwards. The sight of your blood. Everything had him caught in a snare. He would be the one to take your life. Your everything was his. His hands reached for your throat, thumbs stroking the muscle before he drew out his knife. The eyes of the Devil looked down at you as he drew a line over your collar bone. Blood followed the line of the blade and you felt the pain burn in your shoulder. He let your fingers curl under the mask and watched, blinking as you peeled latex upwards enough to expose his chin. His lips were soft. His cheeks were revealed shortly after and you watched quietly as you caught a glimpse of his hard cheekbones and the bright blue eyes. One was scarred, the eye clouded, soft brown hair curled around his forehead. He snatched your hands away and pulled the latex back down, hiding his face once more from you. Large hands pulled away from you and heavy breathing filled your ears.

Angelic. He didn’t look like a killer. You watched him watching you, breathing softly. Fear melted from you as his fingers grasped your shoulders, his hips slotting against yours. The blood on your shoulders was cool now. Michael’s cold eyes watched it drip, finger brushing the bottom of the sore wound before he scooped you up, tight against his chest, eyes watching the blood drip over your neck.

You were his. His obsession. His prey.


	3. Part 3: The Endless Dusk

The place Michael had taken you was all too familiar. The delipidated Myers home was a ghostly place. The ceiling was rotten, caving in some places and barely held the weight of the roof over it in others. The panel walls were rotten too, the plaster laying in clumps and every piece of furniture was covered in dust. Few of the rooms were sound, or even liveable. The killer placed in a room where the ceiling wasn’t leaking. You looked around the place as he placed you on the floor and felt your jaw go stiff. A single tombstone sat by the window, the cold grey stone etched with a name every resident of Haddonfield knew all too well. Judith Myers. Michael’s head tilted at your realization, as though he was curious as to your reaction. You knew well enough he delighted in playing with his food, the arrogance that he would always win in the end driving his psyche. Cold, calm and collected, though you were sure he got a kick out of brutally playing with people’s fear.

The shape watched, breathing heavily through the layer of latex, admiring the fear etched across your expression.

“Michael…Please don’t.” You whispered softly, drawing your legs up to your chest, trying to ignore the haunting tombstone sat behind you.

Michael’s hand flexed and he remembered the butchers knife tucked inside his coverall pocket. He could splay you out, slit your neck and pose you under the tombstone. It would be fun to play and leave you for the cops to find. The thought turned sour in his mind. You looked prettier with the blood spread over your breathing chest.

“I… I don’t want to be like the others.” The words left your mouth before you could think about them.

The Shape’s monotonous breathing paused for a moment before continuing in its slow, heavy rhythm. Michael’s head tilted the other way before he crouched. The movement was slow, purposeful, like all things he did, with the grace of something like a feline. A predator. Your eyes widened as a dirty hand reached for you.

It opened in front of your cheek, the fingers twitching, before a single, rough finger, ran down your soft cheek. The heavy breathing continued, the only sound to fill the silence. His other fingers quickly followed, stroking the skin up to your ear, cupping your face as he watching your wide eyes relax. He leaned forwards when your own hand cupped his against your cheek, the grime digging into your fingerprints. The Shape breathed. His fingers dragged the grime along your skin, watching the blood and muck paint it with brown and red. Silence filled the room once again, Michael’s fingers running over your cheek softly, almost kindly. You knew the power in the hand that was touching you. The tips grazed over your jaw before the hand wrapped around your neck, squeezing, a barely there feeling over the muscles. As you swallowed dryly, you could feel the pressure against your windpipe, the fingers pressing into the cartilage. Flinching, you dared to draw your head back, prying your neck from his grasp.

Michael tilted his head, the ghostly pale mask haunting as his fingers pressed together and apart. Contemplating. Waiting. Your free hands reached up for his hand and clutched the clenching fingers, pushing them apart, running the lengths of your own down his. The heavy breathing stopped again for a moment before resuming. Michael watched your fingers move, admiring the way they clutched his own, encouraging them to loosen and relax. He clenched them, just to test you, watching as you gently moved them apart again.

“Why am I really here, Michael?” You asked softly, pressing his hand open.

Michael watched you before clenching his fist tight around your fingers, coldly watching your eyes grow wide. He let go, just as quick as he’d seen fit to crush your fingers in his grasp. Michael’s arms wrapped around you again, heaving you from the floor, throwing you roughly over his shoulder before he moved away from Judith’s old dusty room.

The killer took you to another room, an old mattress on the floor, and a hearth in the far wall for a fire. The previous fire had burned out long ago, leaving rotten ashes on top of the stone. Michael placed you on top of the mattress before moving back out of the room to the cupboard in the hall. Inside he managed to fish out some old blankets. They smelt musty and old, but you would have to cope with them or freeze inside the old house’s structure. He returned and dumped the pile of blankets next to you before turning to the fireplace. He hadn’t thought about heat or a fire. With a rough exhale, something that sounded like a huff, the man was striding out of the room, in search of something that would burn with a lighter. The killer walked down the stairs to go and find firewood from the yard. He hoped there was still a log stash in the small shed. As he moved down the old, rotting stairs, he heard you get up from the mattress. It didn’t matter. He could find you. He would catch you if you tried to run.

He reached the back porch and walked through the too tall grass before turning to glance back at the bedroom window. He looked at you in the window, and you looked back at him. You moved from the grimy glass and sat back down. Michael continued to the outhouse. He swiftly collected an arm full of wood before returning to the house. He ascended the stairs, breathing evenly, arms full of wood. Michael nudged the door open, ignoring your form on the mattress. He only briefly looked at you through the side of the mask, noticing you were wrapped in blankets. Michael dumped the wood by the hearth before placing three large logs in the fireplace. He dunked his hand into his pocket and rustled around, finding a lighter and receipts from the previous owner of the coveralls. He’d never taken the mess of paper out of his outfit. He stuffed the wad of receipts between the logs and snapped the lighter open, rolling the flint to light it. He set the paper alight and watched the flames curl to life, quickly catching over the logs and burning the wood.

Michael watched the fire, breathing evenly through his mask. The flames reminded him of sitting on his grandmother’s knee, her knitting in front of him as he watched the old television in the corner. When he was younger, in Smith’s Grove, he had missed his times with his grandmother on an evening. Now, he simply remembered them. Not with fondness or hatred. He just remembered they had happened when he was younger. Maybe if the voices had never started, he would still be sat with his grandmother. He’d walked past her grave when he’d torn Judith’s from the ground. The man blinked at the flames and looked at you. You didn’t dare move from the mattress. Michael could see your shivering. A hand reached out and grasped the edge of the mattress. With a great heave he pulled the mattress over to him until it touched the side of his heavy black boot. You looked up at the killer before you, breathing a little quicker, fear screaming in the back of your mind. His head tilted, studying you back. He stood up in a swift movement and looked at the blankets before walking around to the other side of the mattress.

The fire’s heat licked against your cheeks.

“Thank you, Michael.” You thanked him softly before tucking the musty blankets up to your nose, trying your best not to shiver. The man didn’t acknowledge the sentiment. You listened to him walk around the side of the mattress and stand, breathing slowly. His boots thumped on the floor. You turned around in time to see Michael crouch and lay himself on the far side of the mattress, his mask and coveralls still in place. Bright, wild eyes watched you before he closed them, ignoring your shivering by the fire in favour of sleep. As the man drifted off, you imagined his frown softened and his lips relaxed. The fire burned hot and you gently moved to take off your shoes, wiggling your sock covered feet in front of the flames. Glancing back at Michael you chewed your lip and laid down, facing the flames, enjoying the heat against your blanket covered body. Michael’s deep breathing was blowing against your neck as you closed your eyes. Opening one eye you reached to the end of the bed for the last of the blankets. You took another for yourself and looked at Michael’s form. Gently, you unfolded the blue blanket and laid it over Michael’s form.

A hand snatched you as you let it fall over his body. A light sleeper. You gasped as Michael tugged you over him, and tried to smile, the crooked grin not making the killer underneath you relent. His free hand scooped at the blanket, feeling the soft felt under his fingers. His clamped hand snapped open like a bear trap, releasing you from his grasp. The wild eyes were once again shadowed by the gloom of his mask as he set his head back against the mattress, breathing, watching, silent. You leaned back and settled on your side of the mattress. Michael watched you roll back over before he too closed his eyes, his hand resting on the pocket of his coveralls where the knife was stashed in his pocket. Not yet. He knew that, but he didn’t trust you. His fingers slid over the handle of the knife as he closed his eyes, and he drifted off into a light sleep.

Days came and went quickly in the lull of waking, eating whatever packaged food Michael had brought for you and then falling back into a coma, or stoking the fire to try and keep the feeling in your fingers. Michael watched sometimes, just staring at you as you tried to get the heat into the tips of your fingers and toes. Other times, the man left you in that room, leaving to go and find you something edible to eat. He returned this day with an animal hanging from his bloodied fist. The rabbit was plump from the early winter months, having fattened up massively over the summer it seemed. Michael dropped the bloodied rabbit before you and watched, his mask pulled back over his face before he had come upstairs. You looked down at the animal with sad eyes.

“What do you want me to do with it?” You asked softly.

Michael’s hand came back down in front of you, the killer crouching as he reached for the fur and gave it a small tug. It seemed like he wanted you to prepare it.

“I’ve never skinned an animal in my life, Michael.” You confessed quietly.

Knowing this, Michael unzipped his bloodied overalls and reached to his thigh. He drew the wicked sharp hunting dagger from its sheath and curled the blade over his fist, holding the handle tight before he slid it through the pelt and into the rabbits chest. He wrenched the blade down and slit it neck to back legs before dragging it towards the window and holding it by the ears. Guts slipped out, bottling the fur with blood. You turned away as he reached his hand into the tummy and pulled the innards out with a rough tug. It slipped out with a great slick noise and painted the bushes below. He continued, pushing his hand into the chest cavity to pull the lungs and heart out with a clenched bloodied hand. Michael turned back inside when he was done and cut the fur slowly away from the meat, taking the head off after he'd thrown the pelt in the corner. Blood caked the floorboards as he finished, wiping the knife on the inside of his thigh before he hooking his finger into the carcass and took the poker, skewering the animal on the end. He knew not many could stomach raw meat, and since he had a fire, he thought it best to cook the thing.

You only hoped the animal hadn’t belonged to a child.

Michael ignored you, as always, stood watching the flames lick at the new logs. A great pile of ash had formed in the fireplace from the few days worth of fires which would soon need cleaning out and dumping. Something told you, however, that it wasn’t going to matter much soon. You couldn't stay here forever, the police would no doubt be quick to search this place as soon as they had the numbers to incapacitate Michael.

“We’re not staying here much longer are we?” A wild blue eye looked from the flames and back to you before glaring harshly at the fire again, “Where do we have to go next?”

Michael’s shoulder rose, almost like a half shrug, though, somehow you knew he already had ever detail planned. He was a killer, but Michael Myers wasn’t stupid. Cold and calculated. Brutal in his torture and playing. There was a reason he waited years at a time before acting out.

“Do you have somewhere else for us to go?” You looked at his masked face with an edge of worry in your voice, “If you don’t the police will catch up with you.” It was a lame veiled threat, yet you saw his blue eye go a little wilder.

Solemnly, you looked at the rabbit, cooking on the heavy iron poker, and wondered if you’d be gutted the same way when Michael got bored of his little game. Stopping your thoughts, Michael’s hand reached out towards the blanket wrapped tightly around your form. His strong fingers wrapped the fabric around his fist before he tugged it, testing your hold. You gripped it tight to prevent him jerking your warm cocoon away from you, making you jerk with the motion of the pull.

“What Michael?” His head tilted at his own name before he moved for the poker, taking the cool end in hand, turning the rabbit over. The Shape watched the flames again for a moment before taking hold of your blanket again, this time instead, he moved around the back of the mattress and pushed his way in behind you. He sat there for a moment, breathing over your head before his arms moved, letting go of the blanket in favour of wrapping around you. The grime from his overalls was no doubt smearing along your back, rubbing dirt and blood into the dirty clothes you had been wearing for about five days. The nose of his mask pressed into your hair, his breathing softening into gentle puffs against the greasy hair. His hands moved to grab your own, opening the palms to look at the sweaty skin with mild interest.

Michael breathed over your hair once more before pulling the poker and attached rabbit from the flames. It was charred on the outside, but no doubt cooked inside. He let the meat cool a little before popping it off the hot metal with his hunting knife. He quickly sliced a leg free and let it cool on the stone of the hearth before offering the meat silently. Your pursed lips made him force the leg into your grasp.

“Michael, I don’t...” You trailed off before looking at the brown meat. It was all you were going to get from the man. With a sigh you took to picking at the food, “Thank you.” Looking up, you watched Michael continue slicing chunks of cooked rabbit free, though his gaze did flicker to you as you when he sensed you staring. The man ignored you as you nibbled on the food before he too took to eating, raising the mask only just enough to place food between his lips, chewing slowly and methodically.

“Its good isn’t it?” You asked, a little smile curling on the edges of your lips. His head tilted before he nodded, once, a small inclination of his chin, before continuing to eat, pushing the greasy pieces of meat past his lips The fat dripped over his chin, but the man didn’t seem to notice or care, continuing the task of feeding himself efficiently. You reached for the meat, only for Michael to tear you another piece free first and press the leg to your lips.

“Thank you, Michael.”

The next morning, you stirred while being carried against a strong chest. Michael Myers was terrifyingly strong, and that was reflected by how effortlessly he was carrying you against him. It was cool in the morning mist, but Michael had left the blanket wrapped around you as he carried you to the other home he had been using. The cabin in the woods at least had cable and hot water. He had missed television in his time locked away. What little they could watch was, so brain-numbingly boring, that Michael often shook the chains just for a reason to get out of the room of groaning, moaning insanity. He peered over in the mist, breathing heavily as the shape of the cabin came into his sight. You yawned softly, nuzzling unconsciously against the warmth radiating through his grubby overalls. The killer looked down at the movement as he ascended the rickety old stairs, noticing the soft flushed skin of your cheeks as you snuggled in the folds of the blanket. It was perhaps an adorable sight. Michael stopped at the top of the stairs to simply breathe in the cold air, blowing hot air back over your face. You didn’t stir, settling back how into a light slumber as Michael opened the cabin door.

You awoke some hours later, curled on a plump sofa, the television on in the background quietly. The shower was running upstairs and you registered the noise as you sat up, the blanket tucked under your chin. Getting up, you walked up the stairs slowly, hearing the water hit the tiles in the bathroom. Quietly, you peered inside the room, looking through the gap in the door, and the shower curtain. Michael was under the water, glaring at his own feet as he washed the blood and grime from his body. A fresh set of normal looking clothes sat on the toilet lid. You felt your cheeks go hot at the sight. Michael heard you, turning his head, his eyes cold as he saw you peaking at him from the hallway. The corner of his lips quirked upwards at your flushed cheeks. Michael turned, giving you a view of the muscles of his chest and torso. They were powerful, the stomach defined with abdominal muscles, all screaming of power. The man moved out of the water and took you by the arm, reaching for the mask laid on top of his clothes.

“Michael.” Suddenly you felt small as you were towered over by the man.

The Shape studied you. You were embarrassed, looking up at his naked body. He reached for your cheek, stroking his wet finger over the soft skin before he took the mask and pulled it over his face, hiding the scarred eye and the sharp cheek bones. The boyishly handsome features that weren’t a killer. He breathed through the mask, as though settling back into it and dragged you forwards, wetting your grimy clothes and the soft blanket. The kiss of steel met your neck before Michael pushed his fingers past your neckline. His wet fingers then tugged the soft material of your shirt over your head. His gaze looked over your complexion before he leaned over, thinking of a new way to mark you as his own. A new way to cover you in something pretty. Michael pulled up the rubber mask to reveal soft, chapped lips before he opened his mouth, teeth bared, sinking the blunt ends of them into the flesh between your neck and shoulder.

“Michael!” You whined, hands coming to rest on the cheap, plastic fuzzy hair of the mask. His teeth ground into the muscle, bruising deeply before he took to sucking viciously hard, reddening the skin further, breaking blood vessels under the surface in hopes of leaving an even large bruise.

The moan from your throat didn’t go unnoticed by the killer as he snuffled at the other side of your neck, seeking another place to put another dark bruise. The hot water steamed up the room, quickly making the heat ramp up. Before you knew what you were doing, you kissed the forehead of the Halloween mask. Michael’s teeth ground a little harder before he moved back, hiding his mouth once more with the mask as he looked at you with cold blue eyes. His head tilted.

“That…That felt…” Before you could continue to try and string more sentences together, Michael was divulging you off you clothing, tearing what he couldn’t open before he slid you into the shower, slotting himself against your back, ripping the mask free only when you were facing the wall. His hot, heavy breathing felt like liquid lava over your neck as the low-pressure shower sprayed the grime and accumulated blood from your body. He was quick and thorough in his washing, ensuring soap covered you before rinsing you off and taking hold of your hair in his fingers, curling the nails against your scalp. Another ferocious bite to your neck made you lean further into the wall, and Michael used the opportunity to push between your legs. He was hard. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be disgusted as his fingers swiped below, quickly pushing and rubbing over sensitive spots, teeth clamping at your shoulders and neck.

The Shape was pleased.

Michael grumbled into your shoulder.

For now, you were his, his obsession, his everything.

The voices whispered softly behind his ear as he pushed his fingers deep, feeling the stretch of your walls around them.

_“Soon.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who stayed with me for this mini series!   
I'm currently deciding what Slasher to write for next, so if you have any suggestions follow me over on tumblr: https://sp00kworm.tumblr.com/ and feel free to come and chat. Most likely it will be Vincent followed by Jason but we shall see!
> 
> Thank you all again!
> 
> Comments and kudos are both greatly appreciated!


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